Chapter Text
The unfortunate fact about portals is that they, very frequently, lead to somewhere else. Now, when a potential traveler is aware both of the existence of a particular portal and prepared for where it will lead, then a portal may prove a boon. This was not the case for the Lady Sif, daughter of Tyr, Shield Maiden of Asgard.
It was after a long and turbulent clash with a band of Fire Giants on Muspelheim that it happened. Already exhausted and covered with wounds, Sif had all her thoughts bent on the comforting anticipation of a hot bath and a large meal and not on the nature of portals. Perhaps, if she had not been quite so tired… or quite so hungry… she might have noticed the slight distortion on the ground before her feet. Then again, the fierceness of the hot wind and the rumbling pillars of sand as they twisted across the landscape obscured her view so that she may not have been able to see the portal, even if her eyes had not, at that moment, been closed against the wind.
Fandral had just cursed rather loudly at the inconvenient and disparaging wind when Hogun tripped over the shifting sand, toppling Volstagg into Thor. Sif, with her eyes closed against the wind, did not see the handle of the ax that came towards her feet. The handle of the ax tripped the shield maiden, toppling her to one side, and straight into a portal.
The experience of falling without landing, as she expected, on the sand was rather disconcerting, especially as she continued to fall. When she opened her eyes, the glare of the three suns of Muspelheim had been replaced by a sudden and nearly oppressive darkness. Yet, it was the drastic change from fiery heat to frigid ice that caused Sif to cry out in dismay. She then exchanged the indomitable press of gravity for an uncomfortable landing on a hard and rather unwelcoming surface. She stood, blinking her eyes and looking around herself in utter confusion.
There was neither sight nor sound of her companions. She was alone. Utterly alone, save for the silhouette of cliffs on one side and the endless miles of glittering glacier on the other. Unconsciously, she withdrew her sword and fought back the shiver that ran through her spine, due both to the temperature and the circumstances.
Of all times to stumble upon a portal, it would have to have been right then, right when she was most desirous of returning home to Asgard. Of course, it could not lead her to the warm springs and friendly lodging houses of Vanaheim or the quiet sanctity of Alfheim. No, of all places for the portal to lead, it must be to the frigid wasteland of the Frost Giants.
Jotunheim, she thought to herself in half-terror, half-frustration.
Her initial reaction was to cry out to Heimdall. This she did eagerly, hoping she was within easy reach of the Bifrost. For some time, she stood motionless, her eyes fixed on the thick and muffled sky overhead. While no Bifrost opened, what did open was another torrent of wind and a very uncompassionate flurry of snow.
She circled around her exit point for some time, kicking her booted toe into the snow, hoping to discover a sister portal. Afterall, if a portal could lead her to Jotunheim, logic dictated it must also be able to lead her back to Muspelheim again. To her growing sense of unease, her boot uncovered naught but layer upon layer of snow and ice. The winds of Jotunheim howled about her with a strength that rivaled the winds on Muspelheim and their frigid, icy claws bit into her exposed arms and face. The attire suited to the heat and glare of Muspelheim provided no protection from the exposed, yawning face of the icy planet and she had neglected to prepare clothes for unexpected and very inconvenient portals.
Sif let out a muffled scream of frustration and drove her blade into the snow in anger. She retrieved her sword and held it aloft. She made one more cry to Heimdall before determining it was in her best interest to seek shelter.
Well, this goal may have been more attainable if not for the driving force of the wind and the sudden onset of a blizzard. She did her best to head toward the dark cliff faces to her left, but her movements were slow and labored and she could not be completely sure she traveled in a straight line or if she was merely going in circles. Did she walk for miles upon miles or only a few steps? Did she wander for hours or days? Her senses were mired to anything but the incessant flurry of snow around her and the plodding of her feet into the snow. Her entire body shook with the cold. She had given up on carrying her sword before her and sheathed it. Now, she cradled her hands in her tunic, though she could no longer feel her fingers… or her wrists… or her elbows. If she thought of it, her nose and ears were even worse and she found it harder and harder to keep walking for the great weight of cold in her limbs. Her footsteps grew heavier and heavier. Her eyes blurred. Her teeth chattered so that she could hear their protests even in the roar of the wind.
She wondered if this would be how she died. Frozen and alone on Jotunheim. How long would it be until someone on Asgard could find her and oversee her burial rites?
She shook herself. The warrior maid of Asgard was determined to die in battle — and not in battle with the elements. She forced her way forward, siphoning all her strength into her trembling feet.
Unbeknownst to the Lady Sif, her arrival onto Jotunheim did not go entirely unobserved. There was one who noted her intrusion into the land of the Jotnar and one who trailed her steps, cautiously and from afar. This fact, if she had been aware of it, would not have comforted the warrior maid because she far preferred isolation in a blizzard over crossing paths with a Jotun.
Unlike the Lady Sif, the youngest son of the King of Jotunheim had always been intrigued by portals. They were a topic he not only researched extensively but he also intentionally traced their origins and destinations. He sought out all the portals on Jotunheim and followed them wherever they could take him, much to his father's exasperation.
"It is too dangerous. You do not know where they will lead or if you can find your way back! You do not know if you will come across friend or foe! No, it is better to remain here, where you are safe," his father commanded.
It is not, precisely, that the young prince disobeyed his father as much as he selectively chose which portions of his father's commands to obey. He improved at casting invisibility over himself or shifting forms so that none would notice his presence. He hid his presence from the magical eyes of those who would trace his steps. He ensured he kept a magical anchor tethered into each new portal so he would always have a way back home. These efforts enabled him to map out an elaborate chart of inter-realm pathways— a useful bit of knowledge for his realm. It was even more vital since the Casket of Ancient Winters had been stolen away from them by the Aesir and Asgard had forced the Jotnar into isolation on Jotunheim.
Or, so Loki would have explained to his father, if he was caught again. However, he had improved so at stealth and secrecy that neither his brothers nor his father had caught him disappearing again. Thus, he was free to pursue his true aim: quenching his insatiable curiosity and discovering as many portals as his skills as a sorcerer could open for him.
There was an entire universe outside of Jotunheim, after all. He wanted to know everything. Experience it all. There were lands without a single shard of ice and where the light flowed so plentifully that it burned his eyes and caused his skin to broil. There were lands entirely carpeted with green and growing things larger than an ice hound. There were cities that rivalled Utgard and mountains that appeared to brush the very roots of the sky.
Then there were the people! So many sorts and types and shapes and sizes and languages! He delighted in watching from the shadows, cataloguing all he could learn and observe, noting all the ways they lived that were different from the Jotnar. He had not grown brave or daring enough to reveal his presence or interact with any of these many peoples, but someday, he hoped to. Afterall, that was the point and purpose of portals, was it not? What other reason could the Norns have for such creations other than bringing disparate peoples and realms together?
For all that Loki, Prince of Jotunheim, had studied where portals could transport him, he had neglected to remember the fact that sometimes portals could also bring unwitting passengers to him.
She was no Jotun. That was what he noticed first. She was far smaller, with a dark head of hair which twisted angrily in the wind. Her skin showed the pale fragility of the Aesir or Vanir – useless in protection from both sun and ice. It withered like the petal of a lily when exposed to any challenging clime and had no natural defense against foes or the elements. Next, he noticed her apparel. The woman, for he had no doubt she was a female of her species, was clothed in silver armor and dark leggings, and she unsheathed a shining sword. She wore little else. At first, he thought it was due to her ability to bear the cold through magic or enchantments. Then, he realized it was because she was unprepared. By her expressions of surprise that turned into frantic cries and finally a resigned march across the snowy plain, Loki assumed she had not meant to find this particular portal… and had been as surprised to find herself on Jotunheim as he had been to receive her.
He had not even known of a portal in that particular location. It must flow like a river: one direction only. She had been caught in its currents and poured onto the glaciers of Jotunheim. Portals were like that, sometimes. There were portals that worked as doorways, others that were more like a confluence of oceans, and others that were rivers. This one carried its passenger from one place to another and she was helpless to find her way back against its flow.
His curiosity piqued, he followed after her from a distance for some time, cloaked in invisibility. After a time, he noted her steps slowing, her shivering increasing, and then her final tumble into the snow. When she did not rise again, he grew concerned.
Quietly, he approached. He allowed his hand to rest an inch from her face, feeling for breath. She yet lived, but her lips were turning blue and he realized she would die, if he did not intervene. He reached out, grabbed her around the waist, and carried her on his shoulders, as if she were a beast he had slain that he was bringing home to roast. With a flick of magic, he transported them into an underground cavern some miles away.
This was a favored refuge of his – hidden and warm and used only by himself. It was warded and shielded from the view of any other. He laid the stranger on a fur throw and cast a fire into a hearth nearby. Green flames licked eagerly into the room, shedding light on the pair and glittering with warmth. Loki covered his strange guest with a second fur and then a third. He did not know how many layers such a creature required to regain warmth, but he hoped that would be sufficient for she rather looked as if she might be smothered if he added any more. Then, cautiously, he reached out and touched one of her fingers. She did not move or shrink away and so, emboldened, he clasped her hand.
It was so very small and so very warm. And calloused. He recognized the grooves and edges forged by a sword hilt and he smiled at the image of such a tiny creature fiercely facing down her adversaries. Why, she would hardly reach his brothers' waists!
Well, it was not that Loki was so terribly tall himself. Not only was he the youngest of many… many brothers, but he, unfortunately, was also the smallest. The runt, per se, and the most eccentric of the house of Laufey, or so his father bemoaned to all his other relatives.
"Loki, why can you not be like your brothers?" Had become such a common refrain in his father's house that he was sure to hear it at least thrice before nightfall – and that was on a good day. Well, regardless of how small he might appear compared to his brothers, he still towered over this small creature.
Loki flooded the woman with magic— both a warming spell and one to heal the effects of hypothermia. Slowly, her limbs regained their natural color and the woman breathed easier. Then, he noted the fluttering of her eyelids and he realized she would wake.
He paused to consider. She might be frightened to wake and find herself here, with him. The Aesir and the Jotnar were not on friendly terms, to put in mildly. In truth of fact, they were more likely to run each other through with a sword than come within a league of the other. Luckily for them both, Loki was just as adept with casting illusions and shifting his form as he was with exploring portals. Not knowing this little warrior’s skill with magic, he determined it was safer to shift forms entirely than risk an illusion. After careful consideration of her form and figure, he cast himself into her image. His hair and skin shifted to match hers. His eyes, too, lost their red and shifted to green. With a deep breath and inward assessment of her natal magic, he let himself shed his Jotun essence and take hers within himself instead. It was a strange, unwieldy feeling, but before he had time to ponder it further, she opened her eyes.
The woman startled at the sight of him and tried to sit up. He chided her and moved to stir a pot of boiling meat.
"Remain as you are, good lady. You have suffered from the effects of the cold and you must rest. I will bring you some broth, once it is cooked, and you will drink," he told her.
Reluctantly, she lay back down, but not before she reached down to check the status of first her sword and then her tunic. Satisfied they both remained in her possession, she leaned back down and looked around the cavern.
"Where am I?"
"Underground, where you are out of the storm," he said. "That was a pretty trick you accomplished out there. Appearing out of thin air as you did. Are you a sorceress?"
She gave a wry chuckle. "I take no credit. I was in Muspelheim with my companions and stumbled upon a portal by chance," she said.
"Ah, but that is where you are wrong, my lady! One never stumbles upon a portal by chance— but only by fate!"
She looked at him, her expression quiet. "Who are you?" She inquired.
"I am Lodi," he said. "Who are you?"
"Sigyn,” she answered.
“Lady Sigyn, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I must admit, you do not look as I imagined a Fire Giant would,” he said, a half-smile on his lips. “Truly, you come from Muspelheim?”
“I hail from Vanaheim,” she answered quickly. Too quickly.
She was lying. He could tell. His discernment of truth from lies was nearly as adept as his skills with shape-shifting. This maid was no more from Vanaheim than he was, nor was Sigyn her true name. He was sure of it. However, he could not chastise her for the same transgression as he, himself, was guilty of so he did not press her further. It was wise not to speak her true origins on Jotunheim, for, he was certain now, that she came from Asgard.
She was also hungry. Very hungry. He did not press her any further, but instead fed her a substantial bowl of broth and then bid her to sleep. When she did not obey immediately, he could tell her exhaustion warred with her wariness. He was not certain what she feared more: sleeping alone in a strange place or sleeping with him in the room watching over her.
"Would you rest easier if I left you alone or if I promised to keep watch while you rested?" He asked.
She opened and closed her mouth once before she sighed. "I do not know," she answered honestly.
He nodded and rose to his feet. "I propose a compromise. I will remain at the threshold to this cavern and keep watch from there. None may enter without crossing me and I remain within your sight, but at some distance from where you rest."
With a resigned sigh, she nodded. "You have my gratitude," she said with a yawn. Then, without another moment's hesitation, she was asleep.
True to his word, Loki guarded his foundling for the duration of her sleep, while the blizzard howled and whirled outside in the land beyond. For a time, he read quietly to himself, but he could not help but watch the creature as she slept. The dark of her lashes contrasted with the pallor of her skin and the rose of her lips. Gentle breaths rose and fell and then turned into a rather startling snore. From time to time, she whispered words he could not understand. Once, she shouted, and reached for her sword, only to fall back into an even deeper sleep again. He wondered what her kind saw in their dreams, what images their minds conjured in the darkness of night, what lands their spirits traversed when they were between the land of the waking and the sleeping.
Were they like the Jotnar at all or entirely different creatures?
His father had warned him his entire life about the danger of the Aesir. "They are a violent, angry, wrathful species who live for bloodshed and war. Never trust them nor venture near them or you may breathe your last upon their barbaric steel blades. They would rather kill you then speak to you and you must never venture near them."
Well, “Sigyn” claimed to hail from Vanaheim and so he had not technically disobeyed his father's command in this… but, he knew he was dreadfully close. If it had been an Aesir man to fall through the portal, it would have been far simpler. Loki would have run the intruder through before the barbarian knew of Loki's existence. However, for a lone Aesir woman… even one armed with a sword… well, it did not seem the honorable thing to do.
No, she must not be found here, within the boundaries of Jotunheim, by anyone else. If she was found, her life would be forfeit for the dual guilt of her ancestry and her intrusion, however unintentional both might be. Loki would return her to her people, once the storm was over, he decided.
Sif woke slowly, languidly, and reluctantly. It took a few moments for her rational mind to remember where she was and how she had ended up here. Her heart began to beat in fear as she took in the sight of the simple cavern, the pile of furs, and the tall man crouched in the doorway. His long limbs were curved inward like a hermit crab in a shell as he sought to fit himself into a space too small to hold him.
"You are well, Lady Sigyn?" Came the quiet rumble of his voice. He rose, moved to the taller side of the cavern, and stretched out his long limbs. Sif did not know what to make of the man. She owed her life to him. She knew this, but she still felt uneasy. She thought she had stumbled into Jotunheim and yet her rescuer, in form and features, appeared to be either Aesir or Vanir. Yet, he wore only a skirt of white furs around his bare waist, a series of bone beads around his neck, and a cloak of darker fur over his shoulders. His dark hair fell down his back in braids. He wore no shoes, no weapon, and no recognizable garb from either realm. She wondered if it was to Midgard she had fallen, after all, for she knew that realm had such lands of ice and snow and it would explain the nature of her rescuer.
She did not have time to ponder this mystery further for Lodi came to place another steaming bowl of broth upon the table in the center of the cavern. Her stomach rumbled loudly at the sight, but she was hesitant to move.
He tilted his head to one side, waiting for her. When she failed to move, he pointed towards the bowl of food with his chin. "Come and eat. The blizzard has died away and we have a long way to walk before we will reach the portal to take you home," he said.
"Home?" She asked in surprise.
He arched a brow and watched her. "I beg your pardon, my lady. I had assumed, perhaps wrongly, that you did not intend to remain here. Do you wish to return to the realm of your own people?"
Her eyes grew wide and she jumped up then. "Yes!" She said. She failed to hide her eagerness and her relief. "There is a portal, then?"
"Yes," he said.
"You know where this portal is?" She asked.
“No. I plan to watch you wander through the snow and ice in hopes you will stumble upon one all on your own,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Her eyes grew wide for a moment before she caught the tone of his sentiment, and she bowed her head in recognition. “I suppose I deserved that, for asking such a question,” she said. "I would be very grateful for your assistance in helping me return to my own realm."
He nodded once. Then, she sat down and drained the bowl of broth, grateful for both the warmth and the richness of the meal.
Loki cleaned up what remained of their meal and prepared supplies for their journey while the Aesir ate. She ate heartily and vigorously. Once she was finished, she rose to her feet again.
"I am ready. Let us be off,” she stated.
He shook his head. "I must beg to disagree with you, good lady… unless this is the customary garment for one of your kind when plodding through snow and ice?"
She looked down at the light tunic she wore — and she sighed.
"I am afraid I do not have apparel appropriate to this climate," she admitted. Loki quietly chuckled at her admission. A Jotun would never agree so directly but would gradually reveal their weaknesses, once they determined their foe was safe and to be trusted. No, she must be Aesir, for this was a directness which not even a Vanir would attempt.
With a flick of his hand and a flash of green magic, a white fur cape appeared. Her eyes grew wide and wary at his display of magic.
"Where did you…?" she began.
"It is not enchanted, if that is what concerns you. I simply keep it safely stored, for when it is needed. It will keep you warm and dry as we travel."
She looked as though she was about to protest and then thought the better of it. With a resigned sigh, she swept the cape around her shoulders and over her head, but it fell onto the floor behind her – too long for her small frame. He chuckled at the sight of it but held his tongue.
They made their way out of the cavern and out into the grey and white dawn beyond. The grey of the clouds overhead remained heavy with the promise of further snowfall and it warred with the layers of fresh snow that had piled up beneath their feet. It was a soft, powdery snow, the kind that could not be used to build with or slide upon but which sparkled the brightest when light is cast upon it. His feet sank down to the level of his knees and his companion sank to her waist with an undignified squawk.
He laughed aloud this time and moved to help her out of the snow.
"This will not do. We cannot have you swim through the snow and we have no sled to ease our way. Come, permit me to enchant your shoes."
She cast him a wary glance. "My shoes?"
"Indeed. Only your shoes. So that you may trod across the surface of the snow with the lightness of a hare rather than sinking down and plodding your way through with the brute strength of an ox."
Reluctantly, she nodded and with a flash of green light, he bespelled both of their feet. Then, he helped her up once more. This time, the pair walked easily across the snow, neither sinking into its depths nor stumbling through the drifts nor slipping on the ice. With her small stature and her oversized cloak, she moved with the appearance of a child, stumbling with unsteady steps, so very out of place in the world she found herself in.
"Is this Midgard or Jotunheim?" She asked, once they had walked for some time.
"Where is it you believe you have fallen?"
"At first, I thought this Jotunheim," she said, more assuredly, but then she looked at him curiously, "but you are not a Jotun."
"Am I not?"
"No," she said, quite certain in her reply.
He chuckled inwardly again. He would not bother to correct her but would permit her the sanctity of her ignorance. She asked him a few more polite questions — each which he answered as vaguely and noncommittally as the questions he allowed to fall upon her. Then, before an hour had passed, they came upon an outcropping of rocks— grey and jagged and casting long shadows into the snow.
Here, he led her between two rocks. "We have arrived! Here, my lady, is your portal. This will lead to the Golden Falls on Vanaheim. I believe you will be able to make your way home from there?"
She nodded, not daring to correct him nor admit her falsehood. With the powers of the Bifrost, he knew she could easily find her way home from anywhere on Vanaheim. She returned the soft, warm cloak with a reluctant shiver, thanked him one more time, then disappeared between the rocks and through the portal between them.
True to her rescuer's word, Sif appeared on a hillside overlooking the famed Golden Falls of Vanaheim. At that moment, Sif had never been so grateful for a portal in her life before. At first, she considered seeking her way back to the icy land she had departed, just to know if this portal led both ways, but feeling the warmth of the sun on her back and the comforting sight of green, living things all around, she decided against it. She would much rather not know of any other means of returning to Jotunheim… or Midgard…or wherever it was she had stumbled upon.
With a half-hearted hope, she looked up to the sky and called for Heimdall. Immediately, the Bifrost opened and she was swept up into the comforting embrace of the Rainbow Bridge, then the familiar sight of the Observatory of Asgard.
“Where have you been?” The Gatekeeper exclaimed in both worry and surprise when she appeared before him. “Lady Sif, you vanished from Muspelheim and I could not see nor hear you until you appeared on Vanaheim. The Prince and the Warriors Three have been beside themselves with worry!”
“I stumbled into a portal,” she admitted. “It led to an icy, snow-capped land where I would have perished of cold if not for the intervention of an inhabitant of those lands who came to my aid.”
“But… where were you?” Heimdall asked. “Where did this portal lead?”
“I am not quite sure… it might have been Jotunheim… or Midgard… or somewhere else? I tried to inquire into the name of the land I came to, but I did not receive a clear answer. I called out to you, again and again, but to no avail. How is that possible? What does it mean if there are portions of Yggdrasil that you cannot see?"
"It is concerning," Heimdall said, his golden eyes distant as he sought the answers to the questions she would never think to ask. “I must wonder what else is hidden from my sight.”
The youngest son of the King of Jotunheim was plagued with an incurable and nearly debilitating sense of curiosity. It was the bane of his father, the jest of his brothers, and the despair of his grandmother.
“Loki, you were born on Jotunheim. You belong on Jotunheim. What is it you wish to find beyond our borders?” They decried. To no avail. Loki could no more curb his curiosity then he could grow taller or uproot his magic.
When he watched the Aesir maid disappear through that portal, he could not leave her be. Instead, he clothed himself in invisibility and walked through the portal himself. There, on the other side, he found her bathed in the sunlight of Vanaheim, her eyes closed in delight as she soaked in the warmth of the land around her. Then, she called out to the Asgardian Gatekeeper and disappeared in a cascade of colored light.
He shook his head in triumph.
He knew it. He knew she was Aesir. He had met an Aesir… and lived to tell the tale.
It would, of course, have been prudent to relinquish this incident to his memory and return to his usual pursuits again. However, the youngest son of the king of Jotunheim, for all his brilliance, had never been known for his prudence. Thus, his interaction with the Aesir foundling only stirred his curiosity more and ignited within him a desire to know more.
The Prince of Jotunheim, in his study of portals, happened to suspect one such portal on Jotunheim actually led to Asgard. He had traversed it once or twice in the past. Each time, he only stayed long enough to catch sight of the stars overhead and then leave for home again. He had not been adept at wielding invisibility yet and he had been quite young. For all the tales he had heard of the cannibalistic Aesir, he had no desire to discover the truth of said tales and he quickly returned home.
Now, though, the curiosity burned with his chest and he wanted to see what Asgard looked like. Thus, on a day he had no other duties to attend to and knew he would not be missed, he made his way across the realm to a portal near a frozen waterfall. He dug through the ice for a time before he felt the whirl and pull of the portal and then he was falling…
He surfaced on a high mountainside, nearly as cold and snow-capped as Jotunheim. Yet, by the taste of the air, the feel of the earth beneath his feet, and the shallow sky overhead, he knew it was not Jotunheim. No, this was another realm and one not like his own.
Cloaked in invisibility, he walked down the mountainside until the snow melted away into prickly conifers and then lower still, to where the leaves grew green with the foliage of a deciduous forest. Finally, he wandered to where the forest gave way to flower encrusted meadows. It was here, on a hillside, he caught his first sight of the glittering gold of the towers of the Eternal City. They were as audacious and brash in their architecture as they were in their manner- no subtly, no modesty, no attempt to meld themselves into their environs. Just garish, glaring gold as far as the eye could see.
He made his way to the outskirts of the city, ensured he remained invisible, and he watched. What he saw was rather mundane and uninspiring, if he was honest. There were horses and dogs and other beasts which would never survive on Jotunheim- so weak and fragile were they. There were weathered farmers and their carts of hay and produce. There were grey-haired matrons buying eggs and young children riding on the shoulders of their balding fathers. It was so undramatic, so very lacking in war and death and violence. He did not see a single severed head (other than those of some fowl for sale) nor any mutated corpses of enemies. He was rather disappointed. The closest he came to cannibalism was the sale of a fried pastry dipped in colored honey they called "Frost Giant Fingers."
As the day waned into night, he watched as the city square became overrun with musicians and dancers. Colored lights exploded in the sky overhead and lanterns were carried through the streets in rivers of light. It was a festival of some kind, though he could not tell its purpose, only that it was a time set apart for merry making. The music was strange to his ears, but lovely, in its own way. He was captivated by the movement, the colors, the sounds of it all.
In the midst of it all, he caught sight of his foundling. She stood apart from the revelers, her formal dress covered with silver mail and her head held high. Those who passed her bowed their heads respectfully and some spoke to her, but for the most part, she remained alone - as if she were as much of an observer as the invisible Jotun across the way. He wondered why it was she remained apart, why she only danced thrice and then refused the others. He wished he could ask her what it was she had thought of Jotunheim and her mishap on its plains. He wondered what she would do if he approached her...
He did not dare.
When he returned to Jotunheim that evening, he spent a sleepless night considering all he had seen and experienced. Not a fortnight passed before he determined to return to Asgard again…
And again…
That was the trouble with portals, after all. Portals always led to somewhere else, and that was where the youngest Prince of Jotunheim always wished to be.